


Contrition and Catharsis

by MrsHamill



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Episode Related, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-02
Updated: 2006-08-02
Packaged: 2018-05-21 04:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6037642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsHamill/pseuds/MrsHamill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Rodney didn't start to shake until he was on the Daedalus, heading home.</i> Episode tag for 3x02, <i>Misbegotten</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contrition and Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Ailurophile6 for the beta. All mistakes left are mine.

Rodney didn't start to shake until he was aboard the _Daedalus_ heading back to Atlantis. 

He was on the can, actually, trying to figure out why his stomach was clenching like he'd just eaten rancid chicken covered in lemon when it hit him -- he'd just killed over two hundred people. _He_ had. Not anyone else, certainly not Sheppard who had ordered him to do so. Rodney had done it. He looked at his hand, looked at the finger which had pushed the metaphorical button -- okay, so it had been a pressure point on a slimy membrane, whatever.

Paging Dr. Strangelove.

Diarrhea and nausea and guilt, the unholy troika. He spent the remainder of the trip in his bunk, eating Powerbars and antacids, actively avoiding anyone and everyone. The fact that none of his team sought him out during the trip back didn't register as unusual until they were back home, facing each other across the big, ugly table in the briefing room. Not even Colonel Sheppard's tight pants could distract Rodney from the overwhelming guilt of having murdered people who were essentially defenseless.

Elizabeth listened to Sheppard without saying a word. She nodded gravely in several places and pursed her lips and swallowed but let Sheppard speak in a flat monotone until the entire, sordid affair was recounted. Carson spoke as well, in a voice that he perhaps thought was professional but wasn't. Teyla, Ronon and Rodney didn't speak at all and when Rodney glanced up, he found no one able to meet his eyes. 

His stomach clenched again and he wondered if he would be able to make it to his quarters before hurling.

Once Sheppard stopped talking, silence descended on the room. The only sound was harsh breathing and Elizabeth's sigh. When she spoke, Rodney almost jumped, though her voice was soft. 

"This was..." She paused for a long moment. "I think we all know what this was."

"A catastrophe of biblical proportions," Rodney blurted in a raspy voice before he could censor himself. He felt Elizabeth's eyes on him but refused to look up.

"Yes. Well." She sighed again. "Not our finest hour. But I think we..." Her voice petered out again and Rodney risked a quick glance; she was rubbing her eyes with one hand, supporting her face on the other. "We're going to have to find a way to live with this. You're certain that Michael didn't survive?"

The question was undoubtedly posed to Sheppard, but it was Teyla who answered after a long silence. "We were unable to scan the area completely with the jumper's sensors," she said softly. "But the hive ship did not deploy any darts after destroying our ship. Because of that, we must assume there was no one left alive on the planet after our bombardment."

"In other words, we're nearly but not completely certain." 

Rodney glanced up again and saw Teyla meeting Elizabeth's gaze and nodding. Ronon was glowering and silent, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Sheppard had his hands laced together on the table and was supporting himself on his forearms, his head bent. Carson just looked as sick as Rodney felt.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. "Well, then. Since we can't be certain, we'll just have to maintain our wariness and continue on as we have done. At least the IOA is off my -- our backs. Scant comfort." She smiled but Rodney knew it didn't touch her eyes. "Dismissed. Dr. Heightmeyer wanted me to make certain we all knew she was there to speak to, if any of us need it."

Rodney bit back a snarl; he blamed a lot of what had happened on Kate 'god-complex' Heightmeyer and wouldn't be seeing her on a bet. He wouldn't be telling that to Elizabeth any time soon, though, since Elizabeth was obviously still under the woman's influence. It was Heightmeyer, Rodney felt, who deserved a good chunk of the blame over the fiasco that was Michael. Heightmeyer had insisted she could help Michael become a full human, instead of a proto-human/Wraith hybrid. Rodney had seen first-hand how wrong she had been.

Personally, he would be happy if Heightmeyer were culled. Perhaps he could leave her out somewhere as an offering to the Wraith.

Or maybe he was just looking for a scapegoat. But maybe not.

He rose with the others and walked out of the briefing room without a word. By habit, he went to the lab, hoping to find some work to distract him from his stomach but it felt like everyone there knew what had happened and what Rodney had done. He was beginning to feel that he had a neon sign over his head with an arrow pointing down: Mass Murderer! Maybe he could run away and join a freak show or something.

He wasn't hungry; his stomach told him in no uncertain terms what it thought about eating. He doubted he could sleep, even though he was exhausted. Amend that, he thought savagely, he was pretty sure he could sleep but not for very long. It didn't matter that he hadn't been able to hear the screams of the converted and reverted Wraith as he bombarded them, his brain could fill in the sound effects quite nicely, thank you very much. He wore a groove in the floor of his room, trapped in his head, wondering how the hell he was ever going to get past this.

Finally he gave up and slammed out of his quarters, stalking down the corridor to Sheppard's room. Perhaps Mr. Heroics could fill him in on how to deal with the guilt he was experiencing. If Sheppard even felt guilty about the whole, horrifying mess.

He banged on Sheppard's door but there was no answer. Irrationally convinced Sheppard would be in there, Rodney slapped the door sensor and, when that didn't work, prized the cover off and jumped it. The door opened silently and sure enough, Sheppard was there, standing at his window next to his bed.

"Your mother ever teach you manners, McKay?" He growled without turning. 

Rodney spent less than a nanosecond wondering how Sheppard knew it was him before responding. "No, actually, though my grandmother would undoubtedly have harsh words for me." Behind him, the door closed with the faintest of sounds.

Sheppard snorted but didn't reply, didn't turn. 

"So tell me, oh great military mind, how the hell am I supposed to get over this particular event? Care to share any of your regular tactics with the button-pusher?" Rodney was quite proud at how snide he sounded and how little his voice shook as he spoke.

Turning, Sheppard glared at him. He had a familiar brown bottle in his hand, one that was about a third empty. "Figure it out for yourself, McKay, you're the damn genius. As for me, I plan on finishing this bottle, letting Ronon fuck me into the floor and then throwing up for a while. After that, an overdose of Ambien is looking mighty fine."

Jesus. Rodney physically recoiled from the Sheppard standing in front of him, holding the bottle of Jim Beam like it was a lifeline in a choppy sea -- this was a Sheppard he'd never seen before. "What the hell--"

"Oh, sorry, did I offend your sensibilities, McKay? Well, if I did, fuck you very much." He lifted the bottle and took a deep swig, coughing after he swallowed. 

Rodney took two big steps into the room and yanked the bottle out of Sheppard's grasp. Before he could stop himself, he took as big a drink and discovered why Sheppard had coughed. "Christ, what is this, paint thinner?" It certainly wasn't Jim Beam.

Sheppard grabbed the bottle back. "Get your own damn bottle. In fact, get your own damn remedy. I'm fresh out."

"There's plenty here for the two of us, Colonel. Though why you'd want Ronon--" He made a grab for the bottle but Sheppard moved it out of his reach.

"Ronon would be willing and he's not from Earth. I can hardly go to one of my men -- the fucking marines I'm fucking responsible for and keep sending into fucking deadly situations -- and ask them to fuck me through the floor, now can I? Even though half would probably be willing, just to get back at me." He lifted the bottle again and took another drink. "And your scientists are all pussies."

"You lousy shithead." Rodney managed to grab the bottle again and, in one long pull, brought the level way down, under half full. His stomach was frantically sending up signals of distress but he ignored it. "My scientists are better than your marines and you know it. Care to enlighten me as to why you're feeling so pissant? I thought you were all nerves of steel, ready to light it up and take out the friendlies as well as the hostiles..."

It was a good thing Sheppard was more drunk than Rodney, because if he hadn't been, the punch to his jaw might have connected and Rodney figured it would have hurt pretty bad. As it was, Sheppard recovered fast enough to re-take the bottle beachhead and drain most of what was left, but at least he didn't take another swing at Rodney. 

"Asshole," he snarled. "Don't you preach to me, Dr. Rodney I-can-blow-up-a-solar-system McKay. You certainly didn't raise any moral objections about firing when I told you to."

Rodney's stomach lurched and he was pretty sure it wasn't because of the alcohol. "No, I can play good little soldier too, apparently. Maybe I should change my name to Mengele. Oh, wait, that's for Carson, isn't it?"

Any remaining blood in Sheppard's face drained away. His jaw was working. "Sieg heil," he muttered. He dropped the bottle and put his hands over his face, shoving the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. "Jesus fucking Christ, what have I done?"

"That's the big question, isn't it?" Rodney whispered. His body felt numb, except for his stomach which was insisting he was doing cartwheels in zero-g.

"I've turned into that fucker, I've turned into him, God help me..."

"What?" 

Sheppard sounded lost and pathetic and it was catching. "My father. I've turned into him. He always said I would, and he was right..." Sheppard sagged and went to his knees, wrapping his arms around himself. "I've turned into him."

The floor seemed like a good idea to Rodney -- it was hard to fall off the floor. "What the hell are you talking about, Colonel?" he asked, coming to rest on his butt with a thump.

"My asshole father, Mr. Decorated War Hero. Mr. Do What You Have to Do. God, how I hated him. I swore I'd never... And now I've turned into him without even noticing." Sheppard leaned against the window and pulled his knees up to his chest. The movement caused his guitar, leaning against the wall next to him, to fall over with a soft, musical crash.

"Congratulations," Rodney said wearily. Sheppard's head whipped up to stare at Rodney. "I think you've actually passed me in the family-fucked-up-o-meter. Though actually, you might have done that when you said you were going to get Ronon to fuck you through the floor. Not even I would bottom for that Neanderthal."

"It's not supposed to feel good," Sheppard whispered. "That was sort of the point."

"Oh." Now the room was slowly turning around Rodney and he knew that wasn't right. "If it weren't for the fact that I don't like the idea of anybody but me fucking you, I'd probably get really turned on at the thought of Ronon fucking you." He wasn't even sure that made sense but it didn't really matter.

Sheppard was still staring at him, speechless for a long moment. "You might have said something sooner," he said. 

"What, about me fucking you? What would have been the point?" Closing his eyes helped a little, but every time he did, he saw one of the Wraith humans, asking him why. Ronon might be able to justify it as Wraith being Wraith no matter what, but Rodney couldn't do that.

Apparently, neither could Sheppard. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Sheppard was still staring at him, his face sad and tired. "Yeah. And it's a little late now, isn't it."

They sat in silence for a long moment. "Would it have helped?" Rodney finally asked.

"What?"

"Getting drunk, getting fucked, throwing up? Because I've got to tell you, from where I'm sitting..."

"Maybe." Sheppard sighed. "I don't know."

"So... you haven't, I mean Ronon hasn't..."

"No." Sheppard closed his eyes and leaned back again. His voice was tired and sounded far more sober than he probably was. "No, McKay, I haven't had sex with Ronon Dex. I also haven't had sex with Teyla, or Elizabeth, or anyone else on Atlantis, and, in fact, the last time I had sex was with Teer the un-ascended and I've got to tell you, she wasn't that good."

"Oh." If Rodney had been at all sober, he might have found that fascinating. As it was, it did nothing to keep his mind off the real reason why he was sitting on the floor in Sheppard's quarters only half blitzed out of his mind. "You have any more of that paint thinner?"

"No, that was the last bottle."

"Shit. I'm not nearly blasted enough."

"Blasted enough for what?"

"Blasted enough to forget I just killed..." Rodney swallowed against sudden nausea, against the picture burned into the inside of his eyelids. "I can't do this..." he said, softly, frantically. He closed his eyes and pressed his forearms to his ears, hoping to block the silent screams. "I can't do this any more. It's too much, it's too much... I've done too much! I understand, now about last straws, it's just... I thought I could follow you, I thought I could do like you do, divorce the feelings from the brain, but it's too much now and I can't, I can't..."

Sheppard lunged forward to grab Rodney and it was all arms and legs, elbows and knees. They were both well past any hint of sobriety or dexterity. "Jesus, I'm sorry, Rodney," Sheppard said, roughly caressing Rodney's head. "I'm so goddamned sorry..."

"Not your fault," Rodney gasped into Sheppard's black t-shirt. "I knew the score, I knew what might happen... not your fault..." In a sudden move, Rodney wrenched himself back and pulled his shirt over his head, getting his hair caught in the zipper as he did. He started working on his pants before Sheppard stopped him.

"What the hell... Rodney?"

"Do it," Rodney said, finally managing to get his belt undone. He tried to shove his pants down but forgot he still wore shoes. "You said... drunk and fucked and throw up... I've got the first -- easy on an empty stomach -- and I'm almost at the last part, but I'd rather try them in order." Getting tired of trying to get his shoes untied, he gave up and just wrenched them off his feet. "I have to get these voices out of my head... I've..."

Sheppard was frozen into place until Rodney managed to get naked. When Rodney twisted so he was kneeling against Sheppard's bed, his forearms on top of it, Sheppard finally moved. "You don't have to," he started, but Rodney glanced back and was pleased to see him shedding clothes. 

"Yes, I do," Rodney insisted, and his voice was raw even to his own ears. "You thought it would work..."

"For me!" But Sheppard finished stripping then began to rummage in the table next to his bed, coming out with a tube of lotion. 

"Just do it, Colonel!" Rodney turned back to the bed and closed his eyes. "Goddamn it, just do it!"

The first touch against his anus was shocking and cold but rapidly warmed up. He was just drunk enough that his muscles were mostly relaxed; he spread his knees as wide as he comfortably could and hissed as Sheppard pushed two fingers, thickly coated with cream, inside him. He didn't miss the fact that those fingers were shaking almost as hard as Rodney was.

"This is not a good idea," Sheppard was mumbling but as long as he kept moving, Rodney could ignore him. "So not a good idea..."

"Just get hard enough to penetrate," Rodney gasped, shoving back on the fingers breaching him. They burned but it didn't matter, the pain was filling him and pushing out the knowledge of what he'd just done, how he'd killed in cold blood. This was so much worse than Doranda, than the Genii killing and being killed, it was inside him and he needed to get it _out_.

"Jesus, Rodney," Sheppard moaned. He pulled his fingers out and before Rodney could protest, started pushing his dick inside Rodney. Yes, he was hard enough to penetrate, thank you God. 

He was hard enough, and big enough, and it burned like fire. Rodney concentrated on relaxing, on the discomfort of penetration, letting it fill him and push out all the other agony. "More," he groaned.

"No, you're too tight..."

"More, damn you!" Rodney shoved himself back then had to bite his tongue hard to keep from shouting. He felt like he was being ripped apart.

Sheppard grabbed his hips hard, fingers digging into flesh, another small pain to distract him from the big one. "Fuck, Rodney! Just... Just stop..."

The pain was sufficient that tears overflowed from Rodney's eyes. He could cry at this, it wasn't forbidden to him to cry at physical anguish. He let the tears fall even as Sheppard slowly pushed further inside, changing the burn to something far hotter and better. It still hurt, but now his body was perking up, apparently thinking there could be an orgasm somewhere down the line in this and that was most definitely not the way Rodney wanted it.

"Want it to hurt," he gasped. "Helps..."

Sheppard was all the way in and he leaned forward, wrapped his arms around Rodney's middle, held on. His breath was moist and damp against the back of Rodney's neck. "Oh, God, I didn't want to hurt you," he sobbed and Rodney figured out that some of the dampness wasn't from breath. 

"Already did," Rodney said, trying to keep from hiccoughing, keep from getting hard, from enjoying it. "You and me both, already did, it's gotta stop..."

Behind him, Sheppard took a deep breath and began thrusting, hammering, pulling out and ramming back in, making it hurt, making it real. And Rodney cried out, let the physical pain overwhelm him, break him. Concentrated on only that, nothing more.

It helped. A little.

Behind him, Sheppard was fucking him with the same intensity he used while doing pretty much anything -- as if there were nothing else in the universe. With every shove in he gasped wetly against Rodney's back, warm and shaking. Just as the pain began to be subsumed with pleasure, Sheppard cried out wordlessly and stuttered to a halt, coming hard. Coming apart. Coming not exactly with pleasure, apparently, if his ragged, hitching breath was any indication.

Sheppard was a warm weight on his back that Rodney could support while he took stock of himself. Stomach -- yep, still less than happy. Head -- whirling and a call to Ralph on the big white phone was in his short-term future. Pain -- a little lessened, in both areas, though he was going to be sitting carefully for a while. He was also half-hard which made him want to laugh bitterly. He settled for a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan.

"Jesus, did I hurt you?" Sheppard asked, his words slurring.

"Yeah. That was sort of the point," Rodney replied, rubbing his still-damp face on Sheppard's bedspread. "It'll be okay."

With an audible, deep breath, Sheppard pulled out of Rodney and moved away -- Rodney found he almost instantly missed the warm weight on his back. He heard a sigh of relief. "No blood," Sheppard said and Rodney nodded shortly.

"Need to hurl," he managed to get out, struggling to rise.

Sheppard was able to help him stagger to the bathroom where Rodney fell to his already-bruised and carpet-burned knees in front of the toilet, gagging and choking up half a bottle of Jim Beam Paint Thinner and Battery Acid. Which was too bad, because he bet that would reduce his state of inebriation to one not nearly high enough.

Taking a breath, he heard more retching sounds from behind him -- Sheppard, kneeling in the shower stall, bringing up the rest of the bottle. "No fair," Rodney whispered, closing his eyes in a bid to reduce the nausea. "I didn't even get to fuck you yet. You've got to do them in order for it to work."

"Later," Sheppard replied, resting his head against the tiles. "We can do it later."

"Okay." The porcelain of the commode was cool against Rodney's forehead. "Just, you know, for the record, I'm much more a top than a bottom," he said, completely and utterly exhausted.

"Yeah, I could tell that," Sheppard replied. "S'good. I'm more a bottom than a top."

No surprise there, Rodney thought. "This could be the start of a beautiful friendship," Rodney tried to quote but ruined it in the middle by gagging again. Nothing else came up, though, and he thanked any deities listening in.

"More'n that," Sheppard replied. With obvious effort, he stood and got a cup of water, which he gave to Rodney. "Don't swallow," he warned and Rodney wanted to laugh at the double entendre but was just too damn tired.

He swished and spat twice then returned the cup to Sheppard, who copied him. Then Sheppard sagged down, coming to rest awkwardly between Rodney and the sink pedestal. Sheppard wrapped one arm around Rodney and they leaned in together, propping each other up.

"You're not like your father," Rodney said, without opening his eyes. "He wouldn't be throwing up in a situation like this, he'd be celebrating. You don't even have the same personality profile."

Sheppard stopped breathing for a few moments but didn't pull away. "How did you--"

"How do you think? I hacked your personnel file."

It took Rodney about thirty seconds to realize the shaking he felt coming from Sheppard wasn't crying, it was laughter. Strained laughter, but still. "Jesus, Rodney."

Rodney shrugged with one shoulder. "Self-preservation. I hacked Elizabeth's too."

"Yeah, I know, you told me her birthday, remember?" They settled just a little closer to each other, for warmth, which was when Rodney remembered they were still naked. The whole thing should have been absurd but it wasn't, somehow.

"Oh. Yeah. Forgot that."

After another few minutes, Rodney said, "I'm freezing. We need to move somewhere warmer."

Sheppard groaned but managed to pull himself to his feet. He reached out a hand to Rodney and pulled him up too, barely keeping from overbalancing. They stood in the bathroom together for another minute, their eyes closed and leaning on each other, until they felt steady enough to walk out into the bedroom. Sheppard's bed was small but they could lay tightly entwined, which would make it plenty big enough. 

They fell on it together, Sheppard spooning up behind Rodney and Rodney tangling his legs with Sheppard's. For the moment, they were numb which beat filled with pain all to hell, easy. 

"I'm going to need to eat something soon," Rodney mumbled. At least he thought he could keep something light down, because otherwise he'd have to get Carson to put a line in and he wanted to avoid the good doctor for as long as he could. Poor Carson, who was probably feeling pretty much the way Rodney was feeling.

"I'll radio Cadman in a bit," Sheppard said, his voice soft but no longer slurring. "She owes me. Have her pick up some broth or something."

"Bread. Crackers." Rodney nodded and was pleased when the room stayed exactly where it was supposed to be. 

"Yeah."

It was nice, being in Sheppard's room, on his too-soft bed, being held. The pain -- both physical and mental -- was more of a dull ache than a ripping agony and he found he could ignore it, at least for the moment. So that had worked, to a degree. "I'll do you after I've gotten some food in me," he murmured, and Sheppard's arms around him tightened, briefly.

"S'okay. I can wait, now."

"Good. Gonna need more paint thinner." 

"Yeah."

Rodney floated in that place halfway between sleeping and awake, trying hard as hell not to think of anything, anything at all. Unfortunately, his brain wanted him to talk, even though he spoke sternly to it and tried to deny it access to his tongue. "Is this the worst it's been?" he asked, then he winced -- way to be tactful, he thought.

Sheppard didn't hesitate more than it took to sigh, though, so it must have been okay to ask. "Yeah. Though it was pretty bad after the storm, especially..." He trailed off.

"Huh?"

"Especially after I saw how they'd hurt you."

Rodney blinked. Wow. He'd never even known. "Thanks," he said, realizing that was probably the wrong thing to say but not particularly caring.

"Rodney..." Sheppard sighed again. His arms encouraged Rodney to turn, to roll onto his back and face Sheppard, who had a most peculiar look on his face.

"What?" Rodney was too wrung out to try and translate any of Sheppard's expressions.

"Thanks." Then Sheppard framed Rodney's face in his big, warm hands, leaned down, and kissed him.

As kisses went, Rodney had had better -- their mouths were disgusting and both were too tired and broken for much passion. But he let Sheppard in when Sheppard's tongue politely asked permission and followed it back, briefly. 

When the kiss ended, Rodney stared up into Sheppard's eyes and tried to think of something, anything, to say. He was coming to realize that the last two years could have been a hell of a lot better than they had been; a hell of a lot less lonely. But he'd never been one to dwell on the past -- unless, of course, it was a good past. And the last two years, overall, weren't. 

"You're welcome," he finally replied. He closed his eyes and rested his head against Sheppard's bony chest, hearing the welcome thump of Sheppard's heart, and relaxed. "But you're going to have to get a better bed," he mumbled.

"Yeah, okay." Sheppard's words followed him into a restless but thankfully dreamless sleep.

end


End file.
